'I reached Shanghai North Station at about half-past seven yesterday morning,' began Poyning. 'If there was one native watching the gates, there were a dozen, but these people all seemed to be there on legitimate business--I certainly saw no sign of any of them following me. I got to the Marco Polo Hotel in the unobtrusive manner prescribed by you, cleaned off the travel stains, took nourishment, invited the manager to my room, and settled Mirlees' debt. The manager seemed, if I may say so, relieved to see his money. The instructions regarding your manuscripts, Mirlees, have been carried out to the letter, and your other treasures are stored in the warehouse next door; here are the keys, and the receipts for your chattels and your accommodation charges. Here, Philipson, are receipted bills for the chronometer and sextant, which you will find in that suit case--intact, I trust, though it must be confessed they received some brusque jolts during the later developments of my adventure. Here is the letter of credit on Chungking, which the manager of the Cathay Bank made out in his private sanctum and handed to me with very excellent good luck to you, Philipson, and a hope that the inquiries from your well-wishers in Shanghai would not prove too searching. I did not, to be candid, know what in Hades he was driving at, but I winked in the sophisticated manner of one who did, and the genial financier seemed very well satisfied.' Philipson whistled softly. We exchanged glances. 'I pass,' resumed Poyning, 'to the really momentous phase of the expedition. 'I left the hotel at half-past eight, when twilight was falling--as the late Tennyson sang--and reached the fair pleasaunces of Bubbling Well about half an hour afterwards. Here I dismissed my ricsha-coolie, much to his chagrin--it was ten minutes, in fact, before I could shake the ardent fellow off--and loitered along waiting for a suitable person to ask my way. This took some time, as all the white community seemed to be at mess, and I deemed it impolitic to seek guidance from a native. At last I got the required direction, and struck out on foot. I had not marched far down the New Highgate Road before I saw that I was followed. It was a Chinese, a pretty well-nourished subject of medium stature, who dogged my steps, keeping about twenty yards behind. He made no attempt to conceal himself, and when I drew up short, came straight on. '"You wanchee find some housum dis road?" he said, debonairly enough. "My gib you look-a-look anybody housum. My sabbee anybody housum allee same-same." '"Very obliging of you," I said, "but who might you be?" '"My b'long Misser Philipson numbah-one boy," he said. "Him housum burn down so my no hab housum lib jus' now."' Philipson whistled again, louder. '"You sabbee Misser Philipson?" continued my would-be cicerone. "You sabbee where him gone jus' now?" '"Never heard of him," I said. "What's your name?"